Mexican designer Carla Fernández visits a rebozo workshop in Tenancingo, Mexico. In her work, she uses fabrics made by weavers from across Mexico. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston is exhibiting Fernández's pieces this summer.

To the left is a fiesta huipilfrom northern Oaxaca. Carla Fernandez recently visited the region to look for fabrics she might use in future designs; at right, a Quetzalcoatl feathered-serpent fiesta huipil worn by a weaver in San Lucas Ojitlan.

Eunice Adorno/Courtesy of Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

In a small shed in Tenancingo, Mexico, partly open to the sky, about a half-dozen men stand behind huge wooden looms. They pedal side-by-side, their churning feet making a beautiful harmony as they craft handmade rebozos.

Rebozos,long rectangular shawls that came into style in Mexico in the 16th century, and the huipil, a woven and embroidered blouse or dress of pre-Columbian origin, are the main elements of Mexican traditional dress.

Today rebozos and huipiles bridge the past and future of Mexican garments. They're being reinterpreted by designers like Carla Fernández, who takes these handmade textiles and manipulates them into something contemporary.

The tiny rural workshop in Tenancingo represents one thread of Fernández's elaborate supply chain, one that loops from Mexico's plains and mountains to runways in Tokyo and Amsterdam.

A Few Cuts, Then Transformation

On a visit to the weavers, the designer unfurls a blue-and-white fringed rebozo, intricately loomed into a tight herringbone pattern. It's nearly 8 feet long.

"We just make these cuts, and put these two sleeves," Fernández explains. "And you can use it as a vest, and then you can turn it upside down and you will see it becomes more a blouse or a sweater."

Fernández leaves the fringes of the rebozo intact, she says, "so you can actually see that this is all handmade."

In fact, the rebozo is one of the most labor-intensive garments on earth. Before any looming begins, the threads are wrapped with thousands of knots and dyed, then the knots are removed — a process known as ikat.

Mexico's rich, raw fabrics — cotton, shaggy sheep's wool or even rough ixtle from agave fiber — attracted Fernández as a teenager. Indigenous women in remote villages wore these fabrics themselves — but the ones they sold weren't as elaborate.

"I used to tell them, 'No, I don't want this huipil, I want one like the one you are wearing,' " Fernández says.

Now 41, Fernández travels constantly to collaborate with indigenous weavers throughout Mexico, offering special workshops where weavers can develop new skills or learn to market old ones.

Protecting A Heritage Of Storytelling And History

Hundreds of miles away from the rebozo workshop, in the mountains of northern Oaxaca, Fernández has been invited to the city of Tuxtepec to see if local weavers want to become her suppliers.

The weavers here are women with long braids, wearing bright red huipiles. Some of them speak only a tonal dialect of the Chinantec language as they demonstrate a backstrap loom, which ties around the waist to a pole.

Their huipiles are woven with symbols, like trees of life or creation myths of light and darkness. Traditionally, indigenous weaving tells a story.

There's so much cultural significance attached to these garments that issues of historic racism and exploitation can't help but come up. Marta Xucunostli, a 34-year-old local activist, says that she was initially skeptical about designers like Fernández coming into indigenous areas like hers to work with weavers.

"At the beginning ... I was like, 'Who is this designer who is coming?' Because as communities we protect ourselves," Xucunostli says. "Like back in the times of the conquerors ... giving a mirror and doing some not-fair trade."

The role of weaving in communities is changing. When Turok began her research decades ago, nearly all indigenous women wore huipiles.

As more and more children assimilated and went to school, however, plaid skirts and acrylic sweaters became mandatory.

"And the next thing you know ... goodbye, braids," Turok says. "Do you think that young girl is ever going to wear a huipil? Probably not."

Since the Zapatista rebellion in the 1990s, the Mexican government has made some attempts at reform, including recognition of indigenous cultures.

Turok says a critical concern in seeking new markets is whether it compromises the heritage of the artisans.

"Once the designers came in, or the non-profits, or even the government, you created a system of dependency. The artisans became dependent on a third person," Turok says.

"That third person could control the raw material and say, 'Here, I'll give you the raw material and I'll just pay you for your labor,' " she says. "So one of the questions is: Who is in control of the production?"

Making Contacts, Placing Orders

Fernández's answer to this question lies farther into the region calledChinantla. The road into the mountains passes cool green groves of vanilla bean orchards and trees laden with mangos.

Fernández is on her way to meet another group of artisans — women she's not yet sure if she'll be able to work with.

"We will try," Fernández says. "This trip is very important to us because we'll have the contacts of the weavers — and then we will get back to the city and reach them through email, through phones, and then we'll know exactly what we can propose."

In the tiny community of San Pedro Ixcatlán, Fernández's car pulls up outside the hilltop home of Rosina Sarmiento, a 65-year-old artisan.

Inside, Sarmiento opens a cabinet overflowing with bright, beautifully embroidered fabrics created in the Mazateca style.

They're covered in birds and flowers. Fernández checks out bedspreads and tablecloths, holding them up against her body.

"The embroidery is so fine that it looks painted," Fernández says. "If you see it from far away, you don't know if it's a print. And then you come very close and then you see that it's amazingly embroidered."

If Sarmiento decides she'd like to work with Fernández, Fernández will pay half up front and half on delivery. Ultimately, one of Sarmiento's hand-embroidered flowers or parrots might end up on shawls, ponchos or dresses in one of Fernández's two Mexico City boutiques.

Old Traditions, New Versatility

Fernández is prepared for another question as well: Is this use of indigenous weaving traditional? "What [the weavers] do for the tourists is not traditional, either, you know?" Fernández says. "These are the communities that want to do new designs — those are the ones we work with."

Increasingly, younger indigenous women wielding cell phones and business cards seem happy to have their handiwork on the world stage.

"They know how to do backstrap loom. Who in the world, like young people, know[s] how to do backstrap loom? Very few," Fernández says. "But it's something that makes you very unique, like those things that your grandparents taught you. I think the new generations are pretty into it."

Milagros Ortega, 27, is part of the next generation, and a full-time weaver. A backstrap loom of red thread is strung across the patio at her home in San Lucas Ojitlán. She and her fellow weavers won't hesitate to try new things for Fernández, she says, but she won't stop weaving huipiles for herself.

"We would never let anything change this," she says, "because these are our roots." Their roots, their history and their heritage.

You can see Fernández's designs, featuring the work of weavers from across Mexico, at an exhibit this summer at Boston's Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The show is called "Carla Fernández: The Barefoot Designer," and Fernández herself will give a workshop in August.

Cecilia Gomez Diaz, a young weaver from Chiapas, will also be teaching at the museum this summer.

"When I weave, I think how each person represents, to me, a human in the universe," Diaz says. "There are as many humans as threads — there is no end."

Copyright 2014 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.

Transcript

SCOTT SIMON, HOST:

Rebozos are long rectangular shawls that came into style in Mexico in the 16th century, worn by men and women, practical and versatile. You can get married in a rebozo. You can wrap your baby in a rebozo. They carry your luto, your grief. And at the end of your life, they can be your shroud.

Rebozos and the huipil, a woven and embroidered blouse or dress, are the two main elements of Mexican traditional dress. Jacki Lyden has been taking a look at clothing this year in her series, The Seams. And she brings us this story about the past and future of traditional garments in Mexico, which designers are re-interpreting.

JACKI LYDEN, BYLINE: It's just a small shed, partly open to the sky, where about a half-dozen men stand behind huge wooden looms, pedaling side-by-side. Their churning feet make a beautiful harmony.

This tiny, rural workshop represents one thread of a supply chain that loops from Mexico's plains and mountains to catwalks in Tokyo to Amsterdam. I've been brought to this back alley in Tenancingo, two hours from Mexico City, by one of the country's leading designers, Carla Fernandez. She takes these hand-made textiles and manipulates them into something contemporary.

FERNANDEZ: And also, we leave the fringes of the rebozo, so you can actually see that this is all handmade.

LYDEN: Mexico's rich, raw fabrics - cotton, shaggy sheep's wool, even rough ixtle from cactus fiber - attracted Fernandez as a teen. Indian women in remote villages wore these fabrics themselves, but the ones they sold weren't as elaborate.

FERNANDEZ: I used to tell them no, I don't want this huipil. I want one like the one you're wearing.

LYDEN: Now 41, Fernandez travels constantly to collaborate with indigenous weavers, from the Chiapas to the Yucatan. In special workshops she offers, weavers can develop new skills or learn to market their old ones.

Hundreds of miles away from the rebozo workroom in the mountains of northern Oaxaca, Fernandez has been invited to the city of Tuxtepec to see if local weavers want to become her suppliers.

FERNANDEZ: (Chinantec spoken).

LYDEN: Some of the weavers here speak only a tonal dialect called Chinantec and demonstrate a backstrap loom, which ties around the waist to a pole. Fernandez is surrounded by women in long braids, wearing bright red huipiles. Their huipiles are woven with symbols, like the tree of life or creation myths of light and darkness. Traditionally, indigenous weaving tells a story.

FERNANDEZ: I'm asking her what is that and it's a pyramid of Mitla.

LYDEN: And those look like Thunderbirds. There's so much cultural significance attached to these garments that issues of historic racism and exploitation can't help but come up. Thirty-four-year-old Marta Xucunostli is a local activist.

LYDEN: What do you think about designers like Carla coming to communities - you've invited her here, I know - but, you know, and working with these women?

MARTA XUCUNOSTLI: Well, at beginning I was like, who is this designer who is coming? Because as a community, we protect ourselves like back in those times of the conquerors, you know? Like giving a mirror and doing some not fair trade. So speaking of Carla in particular, I took my time to Google her.

LYDEN: Caution comes from centuries of exploitation.

MARTA TUROCK: To be an Indian is to be at the lowest link in the chain.

When Turock began her research decades ago, nearly all indigenous women wore huipiles. But as more and more children assimilated and went to school, plaid skirts and acrylic sweaters became mandatory.

TUROCK: And the next thing you know - boom, boom - goodbye braids. Do you think that young girl is ever going to wear a huipil? Probably not.

LYDEN: Since the Zapatista rebellion in the 1990s, the Mexican government has made some attempts at reform, including recognition of indigenous cultures. Even so, says anthropologist Marta Turock, a critical concern is that in seeking new markets, the artisans might compromise their heritage.

TUROCK: Once the designers came in or the non-profit organizations or whatever - even the government organizations - you created a situation of dependency. The artisans became dependent on a third person. And that third person could control the raw material and say, here I'll give you the raw material and I'll just pay you for your labor.

So one of the questions is who is in control of the production?

LYDEN: To answer this question, Carla Fernandez and I drive into the mountains, pass cool, green groves of trees laden with mangos, on her way to meet another group of artisans.

LYDEN: Do know if you can work these women yet or not?

FERNANDEZ: We'll try. I mean, we have the contacts. This trip is very important for us because we have the contacts of the weavers and the artisans. And then, we'll get back to the city and reach them through e-mail, through phones and then we'll know exactly what we can propose.

LYDEN: In the tiny community of Ixcatlan, we pull up outside the hilltop home of Rosina Sarmiento, age 65. Inside, she opens a cabinet overflowing with bright, beautifully embroidered fabrics created in the Mazateca style. What do you think, Carla?

FERNANDEZ: I have lots of these ones at home because I love them.

LYDEN: Birds, flowers - Fernandez checks out bed spreads and cloths, holding them up against her body.

FERNANDEZ: The embroidery is so fine that it looks that it's painted. You know, if you see it from far away, you don't know if it's a print. And then you come very close and then you see that it's amazingly embroidered.

LYDEN: If Fernandez decides to place an order with Sarmiento, she'll pay half up front and half on delivery. The hand-embroidered flowers or parrots might end up on a mini-skirt in Fernandez's Mexico City boutiques. But is it traditional?

FERNANDEZ: What they do for the tourists is not traditional either, you know? These are the communities that want to do, like, new designs. Those are the ones that we work with.

LYDEN: Increasingly, younger, indigenous weavers - wielding cell phones and business cards - seem happy to have their handiwork on the world stage. Says Fernandez...

FERNANDEZ: They know how to do backstrap loom. Who in the world, like young people, know how to do back strap loom? Very few. But something that it makes you very unique is like those things that your grandparents taught you. I think the new generations are pretty into it.

LYDEN: Twenty-seven-year-old Milagros Ortega is part of the next-generation and a full-time weaver. A backstrap loom of red thread is strong across her patio in the community of Ojitlan. She's intrigued by Fernandez, she says, but she won't stop weaving huipiles for herself.

MILAGROS ORTEGA: (Spanish spoken).

LYDEN: These are our roots, she says, meaning, our history, our patrimony. You can see this weaving and Carla Fernandez's designs this summer at Boston's Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

Fernandez herself will give a workshop in August, along with a young weaver from Chiapis who told me, when I weave, I think how each person represents to me a human in the universe. There are as many humans as threads. There is no end. For NPR News, I'm Jacki Lyden.

SIMON: To see photos and video from Jacki's trip to Mexico, you can visit our website, npr.org/theseams. This is WEEKEND EDITION from NPR News. I'm Scott Simon. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.